Chapter 32: The Dragon's Judgment and the City of Screams
The Black fleet, a vast armada of Velaryon warships and transports carrying the hopes and fury of Queen Rhaenyra's cause, sailed into Blackwater Bay under a sky the color of a bruised plum. King's Landing lay before them, a sprawling metropolis of tile roofs and stone walls, dominated by the three great hills: Aegon's High Hill crowned by the Red Keep, Visenya's Hill site of the Great Sept of Baelor (though in this era, it was a lesser structure, the grand one yet to be built), and Rhaenys's Hill, upon which loomed the colossal, shadowed dome of the Dragonpit. The city, usually bustling with the commerce of a kingdom, seemed to hold its breath, a palpable miasma of fear drifting out to meet the approaching ships.
Ciel Phantomhive, Lord Cregan Stark, stood on the deck of Prince Daemon's flagship, The Rogue, his single blue eye fixed on the distant, ominous silhouette of the Dragonpit. His greensight vision – the shattered dome, the falling golden dragon, the screaming mob – was a vivid, burning imprint in his mind. Today, that vision would either be fulfilled or proven a false prophecy. Sebastian Michaelis, a black shadow at his side, surveyed the city with an air of detached, almost academic interest, as a connoisseur might examine a particularly complex and soon-to-be-uncorked bottle of ancient, volatile wine.
"A city trembling on the brink, my Lord," Sebastian observed, his voice a silken murmur against the snap of the wind in the sails. "So much concentrated fear, so much desperation. The bouquet is… quite intoxicating."
"It is the scent of a dying regime, Sebastian," Ciel replied, his voice flat. "And we are the instruments of its demise."
As per Ciel's brutally pragmatic strategy, the initial assault was psychological, delivered by dragonfire and terror. Prince Daemon, atop the serpentine Caraxes, shrieked a battle cry that was echoed by his Blood Wyrm, and together they peeled away from the fleet, heading directly for the city. Princess Rhaenys on Meleys, the Red Queen, followed, her movements swift and precise. Queen Rhaenyra herself, astride the golden Syrax, her face a mask of cold fury and sorrowful determination, joined them, along with her son Jacaerys on Vermax, and the young Baela Targaryen on her agile Moondancer. Five dragons, a potent symbol of Targaryen might, soared towards King's Landing.
Their targets were not the city walls, not yet. They flew high over the Red Keep, their shadows falling like a pall over Aegon the Usurper's stronghold, their roars shaking its ancient foundations. They then turned their attention to the Dragonpit. As Ciel had foreseen, this was the epicenter of Green draconic power, however diminished. Here, Helaena Targaryen's Dreamfyre was housed, and perhaps Aegon's own Sunfyre, if the golden beast was indeed still too wounded to offer proper battle after Rook's Rest.
Daemon and Caraxes were the first to strike. A torrent of blood-red flame engulfed a section of the Dragonpit's vast dome. Ancient stone cracked and shattered under the intense heat. Panic erupted from within. Then, Rhaenyra on Syrax added her own golden fire, followed by Meleys's crimson blast. The great dome, weakened by decades of neglect and now subjected to a concerted draconic assault, began to groan, to buckle.
It was then that a flash of gold erupted from one of the pit's main gates. Sunfyre, Aegon's magnificent golden dragon, his scales still showing the scars of his previous battle, one wing visibly damaged and flying awkwardly, took to the air with a desperate, defiant roar. Astride him was King Aegon II himself, his face pale and contorted with a mixture of drunken rage and terror. He was clearly in no condition to fight, his dragon even less so. It was a suicidal gesture of defiance.
"The falling golden dragon," Ciel murmured, his vision snapping into sharp, terrible focus.
The five Black dragons, like a pack of wolves scenting a wounded stag, turned upon Sunfyre. It was not a battle; it was a slaughter. Caraxes, Meleys, and Syrax overwhelmed the crippled Sunfyre with a barrage of flame and fury. The golden dragon, shrieking in agony, his broken wing collapsing, plummeted from the sky, a falling star of fire and despair, crashing into the already burning ruins of the Dragonpit's dome, which collapsed inwards with a sound like the sky itself breaking apart. Aegon II's fate amidst that inferno was, for the moment, unknown.
The sight of their King's dragon falling, of the Dragonpit itself becoming a fiery tomb, shattered what little remained of King's Landing's will to resist. Screams of terror echoed from the city, louder now than any dragon's roar. Gold Cloaks were seen abandoning their posts on the walls, casting aside their spears and melting into the panicked crowds.
While the dragons continued to sow terror, targeting the city gates and any visible concentrations of Green soldiers, Lord Corlys Velaryon's fleet moved into position. A messenger ship, under a flag of parley that was likely to be ignored but was a necessary formality, delivered Queen Rhaenyra's ultimatum: unconditional surrender, or King's Landing would face utter annihilation.
There was no coherent response from the Red Keep, only silence and the distant sounds of chaos. Otto Hightower, it was later learned, was desperately trying to rally the remaining loyalist forces, but it was a hopeless endeavor.
"The city is ours for the taking, Your Grace," Ciel stated to Rhaenyra, who had returned to The Rogue, her face pale but resolute after witnessing Sunfyre's fall. "The time for the wolves to enter is now."
He boarded a swift troop transport with his five thousand remaining Northmen, Sarx a grey, snarling shadow at his side. They were the vanguard, tasked with breaching the Gate of the Gods, the Mud Gate, and the Dragon Gate – the three main gates facing the Blackwater. Prince Daemon, with his Dragonstone veterans, would lead the assault on the King's Gate. Riverlander forces under Lords Tully and Mooton would follow, fanning out to secure the city streets.
The assault began with a deafening barrage of dragonfire. Caraxes, Meleys, and Syrax concentrated their fury on the chosen gates, ancient stone and iron melting and exploding under their combined onslaught. The Northmen, packed into their transports, watched with grim anticipation, their axes and swords held ready.
"For the North! For Queen Rhaenyra!" Ciel's voice, amplified by Sebastian who stood beside him (having ensured his master's personal landing craft was… appropriately appointed and subtly reinforced), cut through the roar of flames and the screams of the dying.
As the gates finally splintered and collapsed, the Northmen charged. They poured into the city like a winter torrent, their fierce howls mingling with the crackle of flames and the cries of the panicked defenders. Ciel was at their head, Dark Sister flashing, Sarx a grey blur of teeth and claws at his side. Sebastian, a black phantom, moved with them, his movements an elegant dance of death, clearing a path for his master with chilling efficiency. He carried no obvious weapon, yet Green soldiers fell before him as if struck by lightning, their expressions frozen in a rictus of unimaginable terror.
The fighting in the streets was brutal, chaotic, and desperate. The Gold Cloaks, those who had not already fled, fought with the courage of cornered rats, but they were no match for the battle-hardened Northmen or Daemon's savage veterans. The city, already teetering on the brink of anarchy, descended into full-blown madness. Smallfolk, driven by hunger and fear, began to loot and riot, their desperation adding another layer of horror to the unfolding sack.
Ciel, with cold precision, directed his forces, pushing them through the burning, screaming streets towards their primary objective: Aegon's High Hill and the Red Keep. He showed no mercy to those who resisted, but he also gave strict orders against harming civilians or engaging in wanton pillage – orders that his Northmen, bound by their fierce loyalty and their fear of his wrath (and perhaps, of Sebastian's), largely obeyed, a stark contrast to the more… unrestrained… elements among some of the Southern forces.
The Dragonpit, as Ciel had foreseen, was a smoking, collapsed ruin. Dreamfyre, Queen Helaena's dragon, had been crushed or burned within its collapsing dome. The Greens had lost all their dragons in the capital in a single, catastrophic morning.
As the Black forces converged on the Red Keep, resistance began to crumble entirely. White flags appeared on the battlements. Otto Hightower, ever the pragmatist, realizing the cause was lost, attempted to negotiate a surrender. But Prince Daemon, his blood up, would have none of it. He landed Caraxes in the main courtyard of the Red Keep, scattering the few remaining loyalist guards, and stormed into the fortress, his Dark Sister thirsty for traitor blood.
Ciel and his Northmen were close behind, securing the approaches, cutting down any remaining pockets of resistance. They found Otto Hightower in the council chamber, his face a mask of weary resignation. He offered no resistance as Daemon's men seized him.
Of King Aegon II, there was initially no sign. Some said he had perished with Sunfyre in the Dragonpit. Others whispered he had fled, or taken his own life.
Queen Rhaenyra, accompanied by Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys, arrived as the Red Keep was being secured. She swept into the Great Hall, her black gown trailing behind her, her violet eyes blazing with a mixture of triumph, grief, and a terrible, long-awaited vengeance. The Iron Throne, the spiky, malevolent seat of her ancestors, loomed before her.
It was Sebastian, with his uncanny ability to find what was hidden, who located Aegon II. The Usurper King had not died in the Dragonpit, nor had he fled. He was found in a wine cellar deep beneath Maegor's Holdfast, blind drunk, his royal robes stained, muttering incoherently about dragons and traitors. He offered no resistance as he was dragged, pathetic and broken, before his half-sister in the Great Hall.
Queen Helaena, his sister-wife, was found in her chambers, lost in a world of grief and madness, clutching a child's toy. She, too, was taken into custody, more an object of pity than a threat.
Ciel watched as Rhaenyra Targaryen, her face a pale, unreadable mask, slowly ascended the steps of the Iron Throne and seated herself upon its razor-sharp edges. A ragged cheer went up from her assembled lords and knights. The Black Queen had taken King's Landing. The Iron Throne was hers.
He remembered his greensight vision: himself, standing before the throne. He had wondered if he would be a judge, or an executioner. Now, as Rhaenyra's gaze fell upon him, he sensed his role was perhaps something of both.
"Lord Cregan Stark," Rhaenyra said, her voice echoing in the vast, suddenly silent hall. "You have delivered this city, this throne, into my hands. The North has fulfilled its oath, and more. Name your reward. What does the Wolf of Winterfell ask of his Queen?"
Ciel stepped forward, his boots crunching on the debris-strewn floor. Sarx padded silently at his side. Sebastian stood a little behind him, a black sentinel.
"Your Grace," Ciel said, his voice cold and clear. "The North asks for nothing more than what was promised in the Pact of Ice and Fire: our ancient rights respected, our lands secure, our autonomy guaranteed. And justice." His single eye fixed on the trembling form of Aegon II, then on the proud, defiant Otto Hightower, then on the other Green lords and knights who had been captured. "Justice for the traitors who sought to usurp your throne, who plunged this realm into bloody war, who murdered your son."
A cruel smile touched Rhaenyra's lips. It was a smile that mirrored Daemon's. "Justice," she repeated, savoring the word. "Yes, Lord Stark. Justice will be done. And you, who have been the instrument of my vengeance, shall help me dispense it."
She then pronounced her decrees. Otto Hightower, Ser Tyland Lannister (who had been found hiding), Lord Jasper Wylde, and other key Green conspirators were sentenced to immediate execution for treason. King Aegon II, his mind shattered, was to be stripped of all titles and confined to the Black Cells, his fate to be decided later – Rhaenyra perhaps reluctant to be a kinslayer herself, or perhaps, as Ciel suspected, intending a more prolonged, humiliating end for her usurping half-brother. Aemond Targaryen, still on Dragonstone, would be brought to King's Landing to face her judgment as well.
Ciel watched as the condemned Greens were dragged away, his face impassive. He had seen much death, had ordered much death. This was merely the bloody culmination of a long and brutal game. But as he looked at Rhaenyra, seated upon the Iron Throne, her eyes shining with a feverish, almost manic triumph, he felt that familiar cold emptiness settle within him. She had won her throne. But the city was in ruins, the realm bled white, and the cycle of vengeance, he suspected, was far from over.
Sebastian, as if sensing his thoughts, leaned closer, his voice a silken whisper meant only for Ciel's ears. "A most… satisfying… conclusion to this act, my Lord. The stage is littered with fallen kings and broken queens. The audience of souls is quite… appreciative." He paused, his crimson eyes gleaming. "And now, the true feasting can begin."
Ciel did not reply. He merely looked at the Iron Throne, at the woman who now sat upon it, and at the long, bloody road that still stretched before them. King's Landing had fallen. But the Dance of the Dragons, he knew with a chilling certainty, was merely entering its deadliest, most desperate phase. And his role, as the Queen's wolf, and perhaps her executioner, was far from finished.